


poison in my blood

by Macremae



Category: EOS 10 (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to Depression, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 04:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10506198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Once he’d come down, the feeling would start to creep in. He’d feel a crawling under his skin that had nothing to do with the side-effects, and feeling of tightness in every part of his body. He could feel his blood pulsing in him, oily black and poison. The complete wrongness of everything he was and everything he did was overwhelming, and it choked him from the inside out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from poison by stick and poke, which was basically my soundtrack for this very, very self-indulgent vent fic

There’s the story of an (very, very, very) old medieval Earth practice called bloodletting.

In it, a physician would open the vein of a sick person and bleed them for a little while, so as to (they thought) let out the bad blood that was harming the body. All the toxins and things that were hurting them were purged, so the person could be well again.

Most current doctors don’t have any experience with this technique. Ryan does. Granted, it was more as a form of self-treatment, but _donc c’est_.

Once upon a not-so-mentally-sound time, Ryan had access to a lot of sharp things while in the worst possible state to do so, as well as a nearly bottomless well of remarkably intense self loathing. And, as is a usual product of that symptom of terminal depression, a kind of addiction took root.

No, not that one. The other one. The one that it is point-blank, one hundred percent, no doubt, impossible to get a word about, because that is where Ryan Dalias draws the line in terms of Sharing Things With Others. 

There are exactly three people who know about it: his sister, because she shared it with him, the Razorside pusher who taught him how to use chameleon-based makeup to cover up anything he needed, and Urvidian. Other than that, none, because there are some things that hurt more than shame.

He didn’t just use the needle for drugs.

The two worked in tandem, because when you fill your veins up with sin, even if it’s gone from your body, it’s never really gone from your mind. Your brain will keep pushing and pushing, until it makes you believe it’s still there, and there’s only one way to get it out. It registers pain differently, because pain means pinpricks, pain means dosing, pain means the world has color again, just for a little while. It means freedom, first from the dark, then from the light. 

Your body doesn’t hurt, but your heart is dying of it. 

Once he’d come down, the feeling would start to creep in. He’d feel a crawling under his skin that had nothing to do with the side-effects, and feeling of tightness in every part of his body. He could feel his blood pulsing in him, oily black and poison. The complete _wrongness_ of everything he was and everything he did was overwhelming, and it choked him from the inside out. 

He’d slice at the same arm he’d used, wishing the thing inside of him would leave the same way it came. His hands would rest upon his chest, feeling his heart beat traitorously out of time; the more it told him he was alive, the less sure of it he was. 

It hurt and it hurt and it hurt until it didn’t, and then it hurt again. He was afraid if he stopped feeling it, he wouldn’t feel anything at all.

Sometimes he’d come home to his sister standing at the sink with blood running down her arms. They’d look at each other for a moment in a silent agreement, and then he’d carefully help her bandage each cut, while she turned her head away from the tiny dots on his arms. 

By now, the scars have faded, but it took a very long time. It’s not like he’s ashamed of them, not like the drugs. This was different. This was purposeful and deliberate harm, with no benefit, and no reason other than to feel something, anything, through the haze of highs and hollowness.

One day early on, while talking as they waited for a patient to come out of recovery, Urvidian had paused and glanced pointedly at Ryan’s arms as he peeled his gloves off. Without pretense, he said, “Those aren’t just track marks, are they.”

It was not a question, but a statement of something they both could see. Ryan seemed to almost flinch for the briefest of moments, before sighing heavily.

“No,” he replied, “they’re not.”

Urvidian didn’t try to prompt him any further, but waited until Ryan chose to spoke again. “Have you ever…” he began haltingly, “have you ever felt like there’s this… thing, inside of you. Like a poison, like all the things you’ve done to yourself and feel. And you can feel it hurting you from the inside out, and you wish- you could, I don’t know, God, slice yourself open and drain it away. All that bad stuff inside of you, all the stuff that hurts, until you’re… I guess, clean? Until you feel like you used to before.”

Ryan’s eyes stayed glued to his hands, and he paused for a long moment. “I used to feel like that.”

“Scars fade,” Urvidian said quietly, with uncharacteristic sincerity.

“Not all of them do,” said Ryan, and looked up at him. “That’s how you know they’re the important ones.”


End file.
